Privateer

by Margaret Weis

  “The colonel’s compliments, sir, and would you report to him in his office.”

  Mr. Sloan dutifully returned to the fort. The office door was open. Smythe was inside, holding a letter.

  “You wanted to see me, sir,” Mr. Sloan said.

  “Yes, Lieutenant,” said Smythe. “It seems we are to have a royal visitor. The marchioness writes to tell me that His Highness, Prince Thomas, will be here to review his troops. He arrives tomorrow morning.”

  “Does His Highness make such inspection tours often, sir?” Mr. Sloan asked.

  “Quite the contrary, Lieutenant. His Highness has always before refused to take the least interest in his army,” said Smythe.

  “Why the sudden change, sir?”

  “His mother writes that he is at last starting to take seriously his claim as heir to the throne. I hope she is correct. I regret to say Prince Thomas has not done so in the past. One can hardly blame him, however,” Smythe added with a touch of asperity. “His mother talks of nothing else. Small wonder the young man is sick to death of hearing about it.”

  “I trust His Highness will take his responsibilities seriously when he is crowned king,” said Mr. Sloan sententiously. “It is high time we had a God-fearing man on the throne.”

  “His Highness will be equal to the job,” said Smythe. “He has proven himself to be a man of courage on more than one occasion.”

  “I am pleased to hear this, sir. I will make arrangements to receive him, although on such short notice, we will not be able to accommodate His Highness as befits royalty,” said Mr. Sloan. “We have no wine to serve at dinner, for example, and since he arrives tomorrow, no time to obtain any. And where are we to house him and his retinue?”

  Colonel Smythe considered. “They must stay in the empty wing of the Commander’s House. I can think of nowhere else. Make the arrangements.”

  “Very good, Colonel,” said Mr. Sloan. “How many are in the prince’s party? Do you know their rank, titles? Will the marquis and marchioness be accompanying him?”

  Colonel Smythe returned to the letter.

  “The marchioness is hosting a female journalist from Freya and cannot possibly leave. His Highness will be bringing two gentlemen. One is a friend of the Countess de Marjolaine, who comes to study the architecture of the fort. The marchioness does not think it important to supply his name,” he added dryly.

  Whoever he is, he will be the countess’s spy, Mr. Sloan reflected.

  Colonel Smythe continued, “In addition, the prince is bringing along a Freyan nobleman, Phillip Masterson, Duke of Upper and Lower Milton. Do you know anything about this duke, Lieutenant?”

  Mr. Sloan was alarmed. He knew Phillip very well and—more to the point—Phillip knew him. Masterson had been in the employ of Sir Henry and would recognize Mr. Sloan the moment he saw him.

  Mr. Sloan had to swiftly think through the complicated situation. Phillip Masterson had switched sides, shifted his loyalty from Sir Henry to Prince Thomas. Sir Henry would have given a great deal to see this young traitor drawn and quartered.

  Smythe apparently didn’t know any of this background, however. Mr. Sloan could lie, of course, and say he had not heard of the man. On consideration, he decided that in this instance, a slightly modified version of truth could be of more benefit.

  “I have heard of him, sir,” said Mr. Sloan grimly. “This young man, Masterson, is said to be in the employ of the Freyan spymaster Sir Henry Wallace.”

  “He is a Freyan spy?” Colonel Smythe was shocked.

  “Yes, sir,” said Mr. Sloan. “How close is he to His Highness?”

  “According to the marchioness, this Masterson is the prince’s best friend and confidant,” Colonel Smythe answered, sounding troubled.

  Mr. Sloan shook his head in dismay. “You mentioned that Prince Thomas has never before come to inspect his troops. I venture to suggest the idea came from Masterson, who is hoping to gather information in order to relay it to Sir Henry.”

  “If that is the case, we must expose this Masterson, imprison him,” said Smythe. “We cannot have him near His Highness!”

  Mr. Sloan took a moment to relish the suggestion. Nothing would make him happier than to see Phillip Masterson tossed into some bottomless pit. Mr. Sloan had to forgo the pleasure, however. As in the Aligoes, he could not very well expose Phillip without Phillip exposing him. He would have to again let the treacherous duke off the hook, at least for now.

  “We must tread carefully, sir. If we make such a serious charge against Masterson, His Grace will simply deny it. We have no proof against him, and His Highness will believe his friend. Masterson is cunning and duplicitous. He would undoubtedly use this to turn the prince against you.”

  “I suppose you are right,” said Smythe, his brow creasing. “Still, we cannot have this spy roaming the fort, observing our troop numbers and state of readiness and reporting what he discovers back to Wallace.”

  Mr. Sloan ventured to offer a suggestion. “You have been talking of sending the troops out on maneuvers, sir.”

  “His Highness is coming expressly to review the troops,” said Smythe.

  “But he has given you such short notice, sir,” said Mr. Sloan. “I mean no disrespect to His Highness, but you need not be governed by a royal whim.”

  “Very true,” said Smythe. “But what am I to do with the prince while he is here?”

  “You could take His Highness and his guests to the shipyard, sir. Allow him to observe the crafters refitting the ships to make use of the Tears of God. Since His Highness risked his life to obtain these crystals, I am certain he will be highly gratified to see the significant progress we have made.”

  “A good idea, Lieutenant,” said Smythe. He gave a grim smile. “And while we are touring the shipyard, you will search Masterson’s belongings to discover evidence that he is a spy.”

  Phillip Masterson had been one of Sir Henry’s most valued operatives. Mr. Sloan was well aware that rummaging through Phillip’s valise would not turn up anything. The duke was far too clever to hide incriminating letters among his underclothes.

  Mr. Sloan had another objective in mind, however, and this command to remain behind suited him very well. Indeed, if Smythe had not thought of it, Mr. Sloan had been prepared to suggest it himself.

  He had one problem and it was a significant one. He wanted to be certain he was alone in the Commander’s House.

  “What do we do about Trubgek, sir?” Mr. Sloan asked.

  He had no need to say more. Smythe knew what he meant, undoubtedly knew more than Mr. Sloan, who had no idea why Trubgek was here, or what he was after.

  One possible reason was that Trubgek was blackmailing Smythe. Trubgek must have known Smythe had killed both Greenstreet and Coreg. Mr. Sloan decided to accept this as a working assumption.

  Smythe was troubled, as Mr. Sloan had hoped. Even if Trubgek wasn’t blackmailing Smythe, the strange man who had been Coreg’s servant undoubtedly knew things about Smythe that the colonel would not want his prince to know.

  “I will deal with Trubgek,” said Smythe.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Curious as to how Smythe planned to “deal” with Trubgek, Mr. Sloan endeavored to find a way to eavesdrop on their conversation. He had not yet come up with any means of doing so, however, for he had myriad tasks to perform.

  He had first to detail men to arrange accommodations for His Highness and his friends who would be quartered in the empty rooms in the Commander’s House. In addition, Mr. Sloan was responsible for readying the troops to go out on maneuvers.

  The Old Fort was soon the site of organized confusion. The soldiers welcomed any change in the boring routine of military life and went to work with a will, loading supplies onto wagons and packing their gear. Mr. Sloan also had to make arrangements for those soldiers remaining behind to serve as guards for the prince, since apparently he was not bringing any himself.

  By nightfall, Mr. Sloan was relatively confident that barr
ing the usual problems that would be certain to arise at the last minute, he and his staff and the Guundaran officers had everything in readiness for the morrow, when the troops would march out.

  He ate a quick meal, then, as darkness was falling, picked up a lantern, and went to view the quarters for the royal party.

  The Commander’s House had two front doors, one for each wing. Smythe lived and worked in the north wing. Mr. Sloan entered the door to the south wing, which was to be given to the prince and his friends.

  When Mr. Sloan inspected the rooms, he was pleased with the results. The men had managed to find real wood-framed beds with mattresses so that the prince and his friends would not be forced to sleep on cots. The mattresses were stuffed with straw, but that could not be helped. Each man had his own room, furnished with chairs, a desk, and lamps.

  Mr. Sloan had asked how many rooms they would need for the servants, but Smythe had said he doubted servants would be accompanying His Highness.

  “The marchioness doesn’t trust them,” Smythe had said.

  The bed linens were clean, the floors and walls had been washed and swept, and the windows had been opened to air out rooms that had been kept shut for years. Each man had been supplied with a water jug and washbowl, and a chamber pot.

  Mr. Sloan decided to take the opportunity to report to Smythe and find out if he had additional orders for him.

  A door led directly from the south wing to the north where Smythe had his quarters, opening into the hallway that led to Smythe’s office. Preoccupied with mentally going over his report in his mind, Mr. Sloan thrust open the door and proceeded down the dark hall.

  He saw that Smythe’s office door was closed and stopped, thinking the colonel had retired early. Mr. Sloan was about to leave for his own quarters when he saw a narrow strip of light shine beneath it and realized he could hear voices.

  Mr. Sloan immediately doused the lantern and was interested to note that magical constructs on the door had been activated, shining with a faint blue light, ensuring that no unexpected visitor barged inside.

  Smythe would not have gone to this trouble to meet with his aide.

  Mr. Sloan padded soft-footed down the hall. Having studied the constructs, he was aware that the slightest touch would activate the magic, so he stopped some distance from the door. Smythe had a deep voice that resonated, especially when he was annoyed.

  “You must travel to Freya at once and that is an end to the matter, Trubgek,” said Smythe impatiently. “Gaskell refuses to deal with me and the fault is yours. You were the one who lied, telling Gaskell that Coreg was traveling to Freya! Now that fool Gaskell insists on meeting with the dragon before he will proceed with the plan.”

  Trubgek replied, but his monotone, lifeless voice was so low that Mr. Sloan could not hear what he said.

  “I don’t give a damn what excuse you use,” Smythe returned. “Tell him Coreg went to the devil, for all I care. You must deliver these orders and convince Gaskell that from now on he has to work with me. Either that or remove him and find someone who will.”

  Mr. Sloan heard a chair scrape. Realizing the conversation must be at an end, he retreated down the hall, opened the connecting door, and slipped into the south wing. He left the door ajar and peered out through the crack.

  The door to Smythe’s office opened, emitting a flood of light. Trubgek emerged, stuffing something inside his leather jerkin, probably the orders he had just been given.

  Trubgek paused in the doorway. “I know the real reason you want to be rid of me. You fear I will tell your prince what I know.”

  “I want to be rid of you for your own good, Trubgek,” said Smythe. “If His Highness sees you, he will take you for a lunatic and demand that you be placed in a straitjacket.”

  Smythe appeared to consider a moment, then added in a mollifying tone, “I will send Corporal Jennings with you. While you are in Freya, you may begin the work of carrying out our other plan.”

  “You said the time was not right,” Trubgek returned. “That we were acting too soon.”

  “I want proof that you know what you are doing,” said Smythe. “I am not entirely convinced that you are as gifted in magic as you claim to be.”

  “Then you must give me what I asked for. Now.”

  “Do you think I am fool enough to keep it lying about the office?” Smythe demanded. “I will give it to you in the morning, before you leave.”

  After Trubgek walked out the door and left the building, Mr. Sloan softly shut the connecting door and went out by the door in the south wing. He watched Trubgek—a dark figure in the lambent light of the stars—walk across the courtyard.

  Mr. Sloan considered all he had heard. Trubgek traveling to Freya to talk to someone named Gaskell who had once done business with Coreg and was now going to be doing business with Colonel Smythe. What business? And what was the “other plan”?

  * * *

  Mr. Sloan rose before the dawn, hoping to observe the departure of Trubgek. The stars were fading in the east, though still bright overhead. The air was crisp and cool with a gentle wind, presaging a clear, fine day.

  Mr. Sloan strolled over to the livery stable and found the men already at work feeding the horses. He exchanged greetings with the soldiers, noted that all the horses were present and accounted for, and walked on to the griffin stables, which were kept separate from the horse stalls. Griffins considered horse meat a delicacy.

  Smythe employed six griffins, although only four were present at any one time. According to him, the griffins had once served in the Freyan army, and had agreed to come to work for him. They had been here for several years and mated with the Bheldem griffins, so that they had families who dwelt in comfort and security on high mountain peaks that their mates visited on a regular basis.

  Only two griffins were present. Two of the griffins were missing.

  “You’re up early, Lieutenant,” the griffin master remarked, seeing Mr. Sloan enter.

  “I was thinking of riding Stone Claw today,” said Mr. Sloan, referring to one of the griffins that was absent. “I was planning to observe the exercises from the air.”

  “I am sorry to disappoint you, Lieutenant, but Colonel Smythe and Corporal Jennings left just about a half hour ago, riding Stone Claw and Red Talon. The griffins are traveling to Freya, so they will be gone for some time. The other two are available for your use, sir.”

  Mr. Sloan said any of the others would suit and departed, disappointed. Corporal Jennings was a fellow Fundamentalist. Mr. Sloan knew little about him, for the corporal apparently had no interest in making friends, and his strict religious views made the abstemious Mr. Sloan look like a libertine. It was rumored that he had tried to persuade Smythe to force the soldiers to give up their daily ration of rum, which would have resulted in mutiny.

  He guessed that Jennings and Smythe had flown to meet Trubgek outside the fort. Smythe had likely given one griffin to Trubgek, along with the mysterious payment, then handed him over to Corporal Jennings. The two were probably now winging their way to Freya.

  Mr. Sloan had his theory confirmed when he saw Smythe cross the parade ground and go to his office. When Mr. Sloan asked if he could use Corporal Jennings to assist him with some project, Smythe told him that Jennings was carrying dispatches to Freya. No mention of Trubgek.

  From that moment on, Mr. Sloan was thoroughly engaged in his duties and had little time to think of anything else. The soldiers of the battalions assembled on the parade field outside the barracks. The regiments were divided into platoons, with a vanguard and a rearguard, and officers assigned to each. Colonel Smythe inspected the troops and watched as they marched out of the fort, heading for the rugged countryside where they would skirmish with each other in lieu of an enemy.

  Mr. Sloan should have accompanied them in Smythe’s absence, but Smythe had asked Mr. Sloan to remain in the fort to assist with the prince and his retinue.

  After Smythe returned to his office, Mr. Sloan waited to obs
erve the arrival of His Highness. When he saw three griffins with riders flying in the direction of the fort, he assumed that these would be Prince Thomas, Phillip Masterson, and the unknown man sent by the Countess de Marjolaine.

  Mr. Sloan alerted the griffin master to expect guests, and went to report to Colonel Smythe.

  “His Highness and his friends are on their way, sir,” said Mr. Sloan. “They are traveling by griffin. I have informed the griffin master.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant,” said Smythe, rising. “Come with me. I will introduce you.”

  Mr. Sloan had foreseen this possibility and, again, had recourse to the truth. “Begging your pardon, sir, but it might be best if I remained out of sight. Masterson might recognize me from his association with my former employer and that could put him on his guard. It would be best if we take him unawares.”

  “A good point, Lieutenant,” said Smythe.

  The griffin master and his men were there to meet the griffins when they landed and to assist the riders with their gear. While Colonel Smythe waited at the gate to greet his guests, Mr. Sloan stationed himself in the shadow of the wall to watch.

  Mr. Sloan knew Phillip Masterson at once. He was hard to miss with his untidy hair and his customary cheerful demeanor. He found himself impressed with Prince Thomas. The young man had a clear, bright eye, a forthright and honest countenance, and an engaging smile. He carried himself with confidence, but not arrogance.

  The two young men were talking with the third man, the unnamed friend of the Countess de Marjolaine, the man who had come to study architecture and spy for the countess.

  He was older than the others, perhaps close to fifty. He still had the sallow complexion of one who has recently recovered from a severe illness, but he appeared to be strong and vigorous, and bore himself with the upright stance of a soldier.

  “Which is only to be expected of the redoubtable Sir Ander Martel,” Mr. Sloan said with an inward groan, recognizing him.